


Closing Time

by LaTessitrice



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 18:11:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaTessitrice/pseuds/LaTessitrice
Summary: Prompt: AR - what if Maria was there at the crashdown and witnessed max healing Liz?





	Closing Time

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from Less Seen Roswell New Mexico Ficathon on LJ. I consider this a loose sequel to Little Earthquake.

Maria sets off running when she hears the gunshot—not away from it, but towards it, drawn forward by (bad) instinct and a tug of dread.

She’s only around the corner from the Crashdown at the first shot, and she rounds it as the second and third ring out, footsteps mirroring hers as the gunman scatters at her approach, leaving behind shattering glass and a core of fear inside her. Tiles squeal and her fear is not for herself, but for whoever’s inside the diner.

She knows it’s not empty—after all, she’s agreed to swing by and see Liz at closing, and only a diversion in the form of Guerin’s drunken antics had delayed her. Maybe having to break up his bar fight was fate, meant to ensure she wasn’t inside when the bullets were sprayed into the cafe, but her friend is, and she’s got that same knot of ice in her belly as the night Rosa died.

Maria makes it to the door as electricity begin arcing around her, the lights above exploding in a cascade of glass and sparks. This, too, tugs at a memory, but her focus is on the present. She dares not touch the door to go inside, not when it seems like she will get burned up in the afterglow, but she can peer through the splintered window into the darkness within.

There are figures, movement: a turquoise dress spilled across the floor, broad shoulders looming over. She opens her mouth to scream for her friend but no sound emerges, buried by the guttural roar inside. Not a sound of anger, but drawn from the same well of pain Maria feels.

And there’s something else. Something she can’t really see, not with the way the shadows draw a veil over the figures, but something she can feel. Energy, drawn from the popping, fizzing lights, flowing into the prone body of her friend. Like Liz’s bullet-fractured aura is being _healed_ , replenished, keeping her spirit from making its early escape.

The light show ends, and Maria unfreezes, drawing an unsteady breath and pushing her way into the Crashdown.

There’s muttering within, and though she can’t hear the words she can hear Liz’s voice, and she’s already crying with relief. The other figure—the unknown man, the miracle worker, staggers to his feet, his hands stained red with blood and…ketchup? They lock gazes and his shock is greater than hers, but there’s a recognition between them too: the knowledge that this was necessary, that Liz could not die here, tonight.

This figure is not unknown, not to Maria, and she is less surprised that Max Evans can work miracles with his hands than she ought to be. But then she always thought he would, if it came to Liz.

He rushes past her, out into the night, donning the mantle of deputy for a moment instead of Liz’s protector.

She is left in the stunned aftermath with Liz herself, gaping at the mess of ketchup she lies in and the bullet wound in her dress.

“What just happened?” Liz asks, the more freaked out of the pair.

Maria crosses to kneel beside her, help her to her feet. She could say a lot of things, but she doesn’t have all the answers—they’ll have to find a way of getting those from Max later. _You died_ is too abrupt. _Max Evans might be an angel_ is too weird. But there is something else bubbling up through Maria, something she hasn’t felt since Rosa died, since Liz fled from Roswell, since her mother started losing her grasp on reality. Because even if he isn’t an angel, he might just be what they need.

So that’s what she tells Liz.

“Hope.”


End file.
